The Hunchback Assignments (13 page)

Octavia glided in wearing a gray dress, her hair concealed under a pink bonnet. Mr. Socrates took her hand. “How kind of you to join us, Miss Milkweed.” He motioned toward Modo. “You’ve already met our guest.”

“Yes.” Her piercing eyes examined Modo. “I’m glad to see you again, sir. Why are you covering your face?”

“I—I have a rash.”

“Nothing contagious, I hope.”

“No, of course not,” he replied. Her presence filled the room with light. “I … uh, I was told you helped bring me here. I thank you for that.”

“Oh, you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.”

Modo pictured scratching her back and blushed.

“Please have a seat.” Mr. Socrates motioned to a chair near Modo’s bed and she sat down. Tharpa left the room.

Mr. Socrates leaned forward on his walking stick. “I’ve called this impromptu meeting to ascertain what each of you has discovered. I don’t normally introduce my agents
to one another, but I have good reason to do so today. I’ve heard Miss Milkweed’s version of events. Now, Modo, please tell us yours.”

Modo spoke haltingly, his tongue heavy and his thoughts slow. He felt as though he’d never stop blushing. Octavia observed him like an owl. He began with his arrival at Twenty-two Balcombe Street and described what had happened in as much detail as possible. His nightcap kept slipping, so he gave it a good tug every minute or so. He couldn’t prevent the occasional cough, and twice he tightened the handkerchief over his face.

When he finished, Mr. Socrates asked, “This list of names—do you remember how many were on it?”

Modo closed his eyes and tried to recall the table and the various sheets of paper. “I believe there were eight names, sir.”

“Believe? We must be certain. Tell us the names.”

Modo strained to see the writing in his mind’s eye.

“It said citizens Boon, Saxe-Coburg, Cournet … uh … Featherstone … that’s all I can recall, sir.”

“Each person on that list may be in danger. Try harder.”

“I … I can’t see them.”

Mr. Socrates tapped Modo’s leg with the walking stick. “People may die because you have not been thorough enough.”

“Chastising him won’t bring the names back,” Octavia said. Modo wanted to hug her. Mr. Socrates gave her a long withering look, but she didn’t flinch. Finally, Mr. Socrates broke the silence. “Well, Modo, I am disappointed, but now you understand why you must follow my methodologies in
detail. Each lesson I gave you had its purpose. Even though you didn’t know this was an official assignment, you should have automatically memorized that list.”

“I won’t make that mistake again.”

“We have a partial list. Interesting that it has Saxe-Coburg on it. That would be Prince Albert, I assume, sneaking out of the palace on his own. We’ll keep an eye on him. No sense having the Queen in danger, or any of the Royals for that matter. And we’ll track down the others you listed.”

“Sir, may I ask why you sent me there in the first place?”

“I have many agents who go to anarchist meetings. The Young Londoners Exploratory Society kept being mentioned by the wrong sort, even though it is a registered scientific organization. We were able to ascertain that Oscar Featherstone had recently joined. So we sent you to discover more.”

“And I failed,” Modo said, putting his head in his hands.

“Don’t be melodramatic. There were things you did incorrectly, but you did not fail. Finish your account of the assignment.”

Modo relayed the rest of the story, ending with the burning building. He left out the way in which the crowd had reacted to his appearance.

“The man you spoke of, Mr. Fuhr, is known to us,” Mr. Socrates said. “I’m impressed that you actually locked horns with him and escaped relatively unscathed.”

Unscathed? Modo tried to ignore his aching ribs.

“Until about a year ago, Mr. Fuhr was a lieutenant in the British navy. We had just discovered that he was an undercover agent, most likely for the Germans, and were
watching him. In an act of, I suppose, bravery, he kept his battery post during a minor conflict and was struck by an explosive shell that took his arms and legs. He came very close to death. Odd to think that he would have died for Queen and Country, if that were the last we had heard of him. Doctors were able to stop the bleeding and keep him alive. But one night he disappeared from his bed.”

Mr. Socrates leaned back in his chair. “It was the oddest thing. How does a man with no arms and no legs escape from a medical tent? He did though, and was outfitted with appendages that I believe may be powered by steam. This technology is well beyond our own. He has recently surfaced in Hong Kong and New York. Only one of our other agents survived an encounter with him, so you’ve done well, Modo.

“The woman you speak of is another matter altogether: Miss Ingrid Hakkandottir. I have met her on three occasions. She’s a Swede, but it’s difficult to trace her masters. German? Russian? She may belong to the Chinese. She seems to move from one organization to another. There’s no one more ruthless.”

Modo agreed. His eye still hurt.

“Her left hand was made of metal,” Octavia said, squeezing her own hands together. “Do you know the story behind that?”

“She lost it in a sword fight on the deck of a pirate ship, of all things. She’s an excellent swordsman … woman.” Mr. Socrates paused. “Oh, and it was a sword fight with me, by the way. Twenty years ago.”

“You cut off her hand?” Modo blurted out in disbelief.

His master paused and took a deep breath. Then, without the slightest hint of regret, he said, “Yes. Outside Hong Kong. We had stopped a Chinese junk we believed to be smuggling goods and she was the captain. Even though we had shot her crew dead and she was outnumbered, she wouldn’t put down her saber. She called me some nasty names and demanded I duel with her. I couldn’t refuse the challenge. We fought on the deck while my men watched. I was left with a few scars and a punctured lung. She lost her hand.”

“A formidable woman,” Octavia said.

“She is most certainly driven. I told her to surrender. Instead, she wrapped a belt around her stub, then picked up her saber with her other hand. She drove me back to the railing, but, sensing that she could not win, she dove into the ocean. Naturally, I assumed she would bleed to death or drown.

“Years later I began to hear reports of a woman with red hair and a hook for a hand. Then, more recently, reports mentioned a metal hand. We’d love to capture her and acquire the technology.”

Modo remembered the coldness in her eyes. “What is she doing in London?”

“I wish I knew. I will admit I don’t understand the purpose of this Young Londoners Exploratory Society. Obviously it’s a cover for something else. The very fact that Fuhr and Hakkandottir are working together is worrisome. I’ll be commanding the authorities to keep tabs on the
young men whose names you’ve given us. One wonders why they belong to this group. We are in the business of listening to the wind.”

“The symbol I saw on the piece of paper, what did it mean?” Modo asked.

“Ah, the paper. That was a good piece of work to hide it in your sleeve.” Modo grinned. “This symbol, the clock in a triangle, has been showing up around the globe—America, France, Australia. The diagrams on this page are very interesting.” He handed it to Modo. “It seems Fuhr didn’t expect you to survive your encounter, or he wouldn’t have let you see this.”

It was a drawing of a series of squares that together created what looked like an odd device. Modo tapped the paper. “The shape is human, if you imagine it with a head.”

Octavia was looking over his shoulder, close enough that he could smell her perfume. She poked the paper with a perfect pale finger. “The protrusions at the end of these rectangles—these arms, if you will—look like crab claws. Are they meant to be hands?”

Modo stopped staring at her finger long enough to memorize every detail of the drawing. “And each of those squares has what looks to be a gyroscope. How very odd.”

Mr. Socrates took the paper back. “It’s probably some kind of war machine; perhaps a suit of armor that a soldier climbs into—though it would need an engine to power it. Imagine ten soldiers with armor such as this. Or a hundred.”

Modo raised his eyebrows in wonder. That would be a spectacle.

“And then there are the children,” Octavia said to Modo, who gave her a bewildered look.

“Oh,” Mr. Socrates interjected, “Miss Milkweed has pursued a different goal. She has seen one of the feral children, firsthand. You remember reading about the beastlike child several months ago? Well, that boy’s not the only one. An epidemic, of sorts, has infected street urchins and orphans.” He turned to Octavia. “Please tell Modo, and me, a shortened version of what you discovered at Breckham Moral and Industrial School. I may glean more details from a story well told.”

“Thankee, guvnuh,” she said, her voice a light falsetto. “It’s me honor to be jawin’ wif you.”

“Drop the cockneyisms, Tavia. You left that accent on the street.”

“Very well, then.” She clapped her hands together twice. “Everyone listen to my tale well told!” As fascinating as her story was, Modo found his attention drifting. He was mesmerized by her face, her quick eyes, her soft lips and the way they moved around her words. Her earlobes peeked out from under her bonnet. “And then she disappeared,” she finished.

Mr. Socrates said, “The subject that Octavia discovered, and lost, I might add—”

“Orders were to only observe her. I attempted to save … to bring her back.”

“If you had followed orders, we would know exactly where she was right now, wouldn’t we?”

Octavia looked away from him in a huff. “Uh, well, yes—now that you put it that way.”

“That goes for both of you: Obey my orders. You are still far too impetuous.”

“Hear that, Modo, we’re impetuous twins!” Octavia reached over from where she was sitting and put her hand on his shoulder. He stiffened. It felt wonderful, but her fingers were almost touching the edge of his hump. Would she notice it? She lifted her hand, but leaving behind the heat of it to warm him.

“Now, this girl—” Mr. Socrates began.

“Her name was … is Ester,” Octavia interrupted.

“Yes, Ester. She had metal bolts in her shoulders. So someone was attempting to alter her. From what I understand this experiment changes the character of these children; they become extraordinarily strong. Ester must have been treated and escaped, made her way back to her home, then the governess tried to fix her without a doctor. But why would Ester want to leave again?”

“I believe they are mesmerized into returning to the place these experiments are conducted,” Octavia said.

“Why do you say that?”

“The girl muttered a little rhyme about going back to Orlando. I don’t know where or even what that is, but she repeated it twice.”

“Maybe Orlando is a person,” Modo suggested.

“We’ll discover the source,” Mr. Socrates said. “Modo, once you’ve rested for a few days, there will be more work for you. We will get to the root of this.”

Mr. Socrates stood and tapped his walking stick on the floor. Octavia got up as well and stepped to the bedside.

“It was a pleasure to see you again, Modo. Perhaps next time we’ll be working side by side instead of spying on each other.”

Modo only nodded, but smiled idiotically under his handkerchief.

T
hat same morning Oscar Featherstone awakened earlier than usual. He left his dreams behind, opened his eyes, and sat up. He blinked several times, removed his nightcap, and got out of bed. His body ached as though he’d been running for hours. As he removed his nightclothes, he noticed that his trousers, which were hanging on a chair, were spattered with sludge. There was a strong smell of sewage in the air. Having being cursed with a weak constitution, he waited for the inevitable bile to surge up his throat.

Nothing happened. Not even a cough.

He chose another pair of trousers, his favorite shirt, and one of his many vests. It was odd to be getting dressed, since he would normally lounge throughout the morning in his robe and nightclothes, then dress in the afternoon. Nonetheless, he shrugged on his frock coat and selected a top hat.

As he slipped on his shoes he had an inkling that something was wrong. He thought back to last evening’s meeting of the Young Londoners Exploratory Society. The details were fuzzy. In any case, nothing to bother about, he told himself. It was probably a particularly lively argument over the life span of beetles. He and Prince Albert would often have long discussions into the night over such matters.

He ran a gold-filigreed ivory comb through his hair and felt some satisfaction when it straightened with a slight curl above his ears. He wasn’t too modest to recognize that he was handsome. He was the son of a lord, after all. At dances he was very popular.

He carried his hat through the doorway to avoid bashing it on the top of the frame. There was an itch on the side of his neck, but he couldn’t make himself scratch it. How peculiar.

Oscar walked down the hallway, a continuous row of windows to his left. Outside it was misty, so he couldn’t see London. He felt the chill leaking through the windows. Far too cold to go outside. As he had no plans for the day, he would have Welles bring the
Times
to the study so he could read it while sipping his tea. The
Illustrated London News
was also delivered today. He would spend the whole morning reading. First, he would have Cook prepare a boiled egg and toasted bread.

He was surprised when he turned away from the kitchen, walked into his father’s study, and went straight to the desk. He hadn’t planned on doing that. His fingers found a key hanging under the desktop; his hand unlocked the third drawer down and withdrew his father’s pearl-handled
vest-pocket pistol, a tiny death dealer that fired a single .22-caliber bullet. Oscar’s mind had become a flurry of thoughts flapping around like a flock of pigeons, but this had no effect on his actions. He pocketed the pistol.

Within moments he was outside the house. He felt the door as he closed it and the impact of his feet on the cobblestone path as he walked toward the stables. He was no longer making choices; it was as though his body was moving on its own. He willed his feet to stop, but his legs rose and fell, regardless. The crisp air bit his skin. He tried to lift his arms, but they remained rigid at his sides.